


think of me as a time of day

by theoneinquisitor



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bellarke, Post-Canon, Reunion and Emotion fic, Season 5 spec, Speculation, lolz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 19:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14361648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneinquisitor/pseuds/theoneinquisitor
Summary: three times Bellamy misses Clarke and one time he doesn't have to. S5 speculation.





	think of me as a time of day

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this when i was feeling emo about the six year seperation and the reunion i want. so here ya go.

**i.**

So this is how it ends.

 

In the middle of space, so close to sanctuary and yet so far away. Bellamy thinks back to the books he used to read, the one where the villain would die at the end and he thinks maybe he’ll take a similar path. He isn’t a hero, not even close. But in those books the villain tries to atone for their sins, to speak them aloud and to let the world know how sorry they are. And he feels that, he does. There are plenty of things he’s ready to answer for. Yet, he doesn’t find himself reflecting over his brief life. Instead, he can only think of one thing. One person. 

 

“I left her behind,” his voices cracks as he says it, the pent up adrenaline and overwhelming sensation of acceptance because this is it. Everything they’ve worked for wasn’t enough. And he left Clarke to die. Alone.

 

“I left her behind, and we all die anyway.”

 

Everyone is silent, taking in the severity of that statement. He would feel differently, maybe if he were the only one on the ship. Perhaps, he could accept it quietly.  But as it is, he's not alone and all he can think about is that he promised he would look out for them. He promised to use his head to keep them safe and he failed already, not hours after that conversation. He failed her.

 

“Bellamy…” someone breathes behind him and he looks up just as the Ring begins to power on, lights twinkling in the dark vastness of space. A beacon of hope. 

 

He feels stupid, of course, for doubting that she could do it. Because she's Clarke fucking Griffin and she can do anything. 

 

_ Could. _

 

Raven opens the landing bay and they're being taken in by the old floating hunk of metal. Yet, the victory is short lived. Their problems are far from over. Now that they're here, they have to get the oxygen running and his suit is hissing in his ear that he only has 9%. Less than ten minutes to spare.

 

Even now, it can end all the same.

 

No, he resolves, it can't.  Clarke held up her end of the bargain, sacrificed her own safety to make sure they made it. He'll be damned if he let's that all be a waste. 

 

They're moving as soon as the ship comes to a stop. Murphy and Harper grab Monty, still weak from the radiation poisoning, while Echo heaves Ravens arm over her shoulder. Even through the screen of her helmet, he can see how pale she's become. Her oxygen went much quicker on the the spacewalk. They only have moments to figure this out.

 

He picks up the machine part, his knees nearly buckling from the weight but he forces one foot in front of the other. Keep them safe. Keep them safe. He has to keep them safe. Raven guides them to the panel but she doesn't make it there, falling to the ground in huffs of air.

 

“I got her,” Emori says after helping Monty to the floor next to him.

 

He's going as quick as he can, drilling out each bolt, but it's a tedious task. He hears an annoyed growl that sounds vaguely Like ‘move’ before Echo shoves him out of the way and yanks the panel right off the hinges. It hits the ground with an unpleasant clang. 

 

“The hose,” Monty croaks and Bellamy follows his disjointed directions. Hose to segment A, flip the switch on the side, pull the clip on the top. He can feel his head start to spin, his suit screaming at him.  _ Oxygen critical _ . No shit.

 

His ears are swimming now and he can hardly hear Monty when he says something about the red and black wires. His hands are shaking as he connects them to their ports. His vision is blurring and it feels as though a weight is pushing against his chest. They have to do this now or…

 

When he glances over at Monty, he's slumped over and his chest has stilled. The only person who knows how to do this and fuck, Bellamy should have listened when they went over it. They went over it seven thousand times. The air is sucked from his suit, oxygen depleted, and he rips off his helmet.

 

“Monty, “ he gasps and reaches for his friend, “Please.”

 

No response. He looks at the machine again, willing himself to remember but everything is spinning now and he can't even begin to know which way is up.

 

“I'm sorry,” he chokes out, and he hates that these are his last words, grateful that no one can hear him as he gives up, “I couldn't.”

 

A pause, nothing but the silence of space. He closes his eyes and waits, his heartbeat thumping wildly against his chest, desperate for air. Death isn't gentle, he thinks. 

 

But then...

 

“Bellamy…” it’s her voice, unmistakably, the familiarity of it consuming him in one quick breadth. He must be dead, he thinks, but he doesn't deserve to be this lucky. Wherever they are, he does not deserve to be in the same place. The good place. 

 

“Get up,” she tells him and suddenly, everything comes into focus. The Ring, the generator still half way connected, the others scattered around him, trying to find that last breath. He sees her, and shes just as he left her, cold sweat and matted hair but  still recognizably Clarke.

 

“You can do this,” she tells him with a half-smile, “I trust you.”

 

Somewhere, he draws strength from it and manages to pull himself from the ground. With a groan, he crawls back to the panel and takes another look.

 

“Use your head,” and he can almost feel her finger tapping against his temple just like it had. She's right here. 

 

She's right here.

 

He's choking out air, his body feeling like lead as he moves his hand. There's a switch, he remembers, a switch he has to flip. The breaker. With all his strength he reaches up and flips the switch. It's all he can do before he's falling to the ground again.

 

“I'm sorry,” he tries to tell her but nothing comes out. Darkness colors the corners of his vision but even in his haze, he sees her above him, smiling and when she leans down, he hears a faint whisper.

 

“It's okay,” she breathes and it's like that one sentence breathes life back into him. His eyes snap open and he crawls to the vent, now whirring with life. The others stir around him, coughing and laughing and alive.

 

They’re alive.

 

(Almost all of them, anyway.) 

  
  


**ii.**

Space is quiet. Too quiet, and that’s what drives him crazy most of all. They have set routines, things to keep them busy during the day. It’s something he had insisted on. Repairs, farming, sparring. They have schedules they follow to keep things more organized and perhaps, once, Bellamy used to dream of that. A peace in which they could find a sense of normalcy. But this one feels empty.

 

Every day he wakes up and helps Raven with whatever machine part she’s working on. He helps Monty figure out the mechanics of the algae farm, though really he watches Monty do most of the work while he does the heavy lifting. He and Echo fight. She’s been teaching him how to use a sword -- she managed to sneak a few into space and he can’t say he minds. It’s a way to keep them in shape now that they aren’t free to roam miles and miles. It helps them all relieve a little bit of tension because the fact remains: they’re all stuck on one single hunk of metal.

 

After they finish for the day, everyone rests. Like clockwork, they work, eat, and sleep on a schedule.  He will bid them goodnight and wander off into his room (they gave him Jaha’s old quarters, which is still eerie to him for a multitude of reasons). Except when the time comes, he can't sleep. He hardly sleeps. 

 

He never truly slept well on the ground, either, too wound up for the most part. Here, the stress isn't as great; while they survival isn't coming easy, the fear of being slaughtered in the middle of the night isn't as plausible. Now, he doesn't sleep for multiple reasons. Yes, stress is still an active piece of who he is, but in the silence of space his nightmares only grow louder. 

 

They vary and, often times, he doesn’t remember them. He just wakes up in a cold sweat and can’t go back to sleep. He’s tried to remedy it -- exhausting himself during the day, taking long walks around the Ring. Reading the instruction manual for some machine he has no interest in. None of it has worked. 

 

Until something did.

 

Somehow, Monty found a way to make his signature moonshine with their limited supplies. Originally, or so he says, it was something to help them loosen up. It was a reason to celebrate their survival and all those they lost (and by no means is Bellamy oblivious to the fact that its also a small piece of Jasper that Monty could hold on to, remember positively). Ultimately, though, the purpose was recreational intent. Not habitual.

 

But Bellamy is flawed, strangely dependent on people, places, and things. And that has always been, and continues to be, his downfall. 

 

Using it as a crutch is not something he planned, but the first night he got drunk was the first time he was able to sleep through the night. In six months, the first time there were no dreams or tremors or sweata. Nothing.  He almost forgot what it felt like to wake up and feel rested. To have no remnants of bad memories or poor choices lingering in his mind. It felt good. 

 

At first, it was just a couple of sips to take the edge off. Enough to numb him for long enough to give in to fatigue. But then it stopped working so sips became drinks and drinks became gulps and now he's at a place where he has to keep going until he can hardly keep his eyes open.

 

Now, as everyone sleeps, he stumbles through the halls, searching. 

 

He isn’t sure what he’s searching for, but he feels lost. The Ring feels sweeping and overwhelming in this moment. He takes another drink and wipes his mouth as he leans against the wall for a moment to catch his breath. Has he been in the hallway before? There is something familiar about it, but not recent. He continues on, keeping one hand firmly on the wall for support. His head is spinning and vision isn’t exactly clear. When had he gotten this drunk? 

 

It was a bad day, from start to finish. Raven threw the radio at him (not really AT him, he just walked into the room at the wrong time) when it crapped out again. She’s been fixated on fixing the comms for the last four months and has yet to be successful. It’s their one attachment to the ground, to home, and she can’t fix it. He's not sure why she seems so distraught by that, but he thinks it's something to do with hope. If she can just talk to the others, connect herself to the ground, then going back is real. He can't really blame her for that because right now, it feels like a pipe dream.

 

After that and some excessive swearing, he tried his luck with Echo, who also appeared to be in a foul mood today for some odd reason. She sparred with him upon his request but her hits were harder. Intentional, even. By the time it was over, he was limping from the open space nursing a sore knee.

 

Everyone seemed to be a little off and he couldn’t quite place why. The day was nothing special. No significant events or anniversaries, at least, that he is aware of. Perhaps the orbit or gravity was throwing everything off kilter. Regardless, he never felt so grateful for a drink...or five. Fuck, where is he?

 

There are a series of doors lining the hallway, thick metal doors with only small slivers of light peeking through. He pushes against the first one but it doesn’t budge, the metal creaking under his fingers as he, very weakly, attempts to open it. He continues on, pushing against each door to no avail. He starts to turn around but the door on the end corner catches his eye. It’s cracked open, having not been shut completely like the rest. He can’t explain why, but he feels a pull forward. He somehow manages to put one foot in front of the other and shoves the door open with a grunt.

 

The first thing he sees is a number: 319. And suddenly he knows where he is. He practically falls into the room, gazing at the drawings scattered along the walls. He knows the moment he lays his eyes on the picture just underneath his left hand, whose cell this was. Clarke’s art has always been distinguishable. Unique. Beautiful. He examines the drawing, a landscape of what she must have imagined Earth to look like. She wasn’t far off, though he doesn’t think the Earth does the the drawing any justice. It’s amazing.

 

He feels something wet fall onto his wrist and it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying. He swipes at the tears, something so foreign in this moment and leans back on his knees to empty the flask. The liquid singes his throat and makes his chest feel like it might spontaneously combust but...God, he’s in Clarke’s  _ cell.  _ It feels like a grave.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says aloud, his voice almost unrecognizable to his own ears, “I’m so sorry.”

 

“Help me,” a whisper ghosts against his ear and he turns around. But there is nothing there. He swears he heard…

 

“Bellamy,” there it is again, but it’s unmistakable this time, “You left. Why did you leave?”

 

“Clarke?” he cries. She’s nowhere. He can hear her but she isn’t here.

 

“This is your fault,” this time, it’s loud. Booming almost, echoing throughout the small concrete block. He falls to the ground and covers his ears. He can’t hear this. He doesn’t want to hear this.

 

“No,” he whispers.

 

“You left me!” he presses his forehead against the floor. This isn’t Clarke. She would never say these things. She told him to use his head. She told him to protect the others. He had to. He  _ had  _ to leave her! 

 

“I’m dead. It’s all because of you...”  _ She’s dead. _ She’s dead. Because of him. He killed her. He did this to her. Why did he leave her there? Why?

 

“No!” he yells again and he’s wailing into the floor now, begging it to stop. He can’t hear this. He can’t hear the truth, not right now.

 

“Look at me!” he jerks his head up and this time, she’s there. She’s right in front of him but it’s not really her. It’s a figure distorted by blood and and blisters. Unrecognizable but distinguishable. He grips the side of the small bed, trying to move away. 

 

“Why did you do this?” she’s whispering now, but the room is spinning around him. He finds a small bin next to the wall and pulls it toward himself, emptying the contents of his stomach. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks and it’s all he can say. Nothing more because he did this to her. She suffered because of him, left on the ground to die alone. His stomach turns again.

 

“Did you think you could be forgiven?” her voice is no longer angry, but final. No, he thinks. He can never be forgiven not by himself or anyone else. He has to live with all he’s done, with the weight of this on his heart every single day.

 

He squeezes his eyes shut, the tears dripping from his cheeks onto the cold floor, “I did what I had to do. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

 

He feels arms circle around his shoulders and he reacts, pushing them away, “No! Clarke, please!”

 

“Bellamy!” it’s not Clarke who says his name this time. He tries to focus his eyes, wild and furious. It’s not Clarke. Clarke is dead.

 

Raven watches him, cautiously holding up her hands as she reaches towards him, “It’s me, Bellamy.”

 

He swallows thickly, “Raven?”

 

When she wraps her arm around his shoulder, he doesn’t pull away. He leans into it, the warmth and security. She doesn’t say anything, just holds him like that as he cries and shakes. He isn’t sure how long they sit there but at some point he pulls away and they just stare at the drawing on the ground. Finally, as his voice is clear and his eyelids begin to feel heavy he whispers.

 

“My fault.”

 

Raven grips his face between her hands, her fingertips cold as they pinch his cheeks, “This is not your fault. Clarke would have done the same thing and you know it.”

 

He shakes his head, the vision of her still swimming in his mind. So violent and vivid

 

There’s a vulnerability here, now, that when he looks at Raven he feels like he has to tell her. It’s not fair for her to think otherwise, to think he’s stronger than he is. He’s weak. So weak.

 

“I can’t do this without her.”

 

“Hey,” Raven says, softer than he’s ever heard her be, “You remember what you said to me that first day?”

 

He thinks about it for a moment, pauses to try and gather his thoughts. His head is swimming, but he remembers. Clear as day because he’s spent every single day trying to live up to it. To make himself believe it.

 

“If we don’t, then she died in vain. And I’m not gonna let that happen.”

 

They let the statement echo around them. It settles in the air and he takes deep breath. How could he have let this happen? He’s better than this. Clarke would want him, no  _ need  _ him to be better than this and he’s failing. They sit in the silence and just let themselves grieve and he thinks maybe this is the first time they’ve allowed themselves to do it. The first night had been close, but full of panic over getting the ring in functioning order. It’s been nothing but repairs and routine since and they haven’t had time to come to terms with all they’ve lost. This is the breaking point. 

 

“I miss her,” he finally says, when his mind begins to clear and the tears have dried on his cheeks. His voice is firm now, though horse still from the emotion of before. But this is the clearest  thing he’s said all day, the most honest he’s been with anyone else in a long time. He feels Raven squeeze his hand, a gentle comfort and a sad smile. 

 

“I know,” she whispers, “Me too.” 

 

**iii.**

 

Somehow, they make it three years without a severe accident or injury. Over time, there have been small cuts and bruises. Echo once slashed open her knee but just took a hot blade and with barely a flinch, closed up the wound on her own. It’s lucky, really, since none of them are particularly skilled in medicine. That was Clarke’s expertise and they had never bothered to learn it. So when Bellamy gets injured, it’s a little bit of a big deal. 

 

“I’m fine,” he tries to tell them, reaching back to feel the damage. He had been underneath the dropship, helping Raven work on the engine when he dropped the wrench on his forehead. He’s not one to be clumsy, typically, but his grip slipped and all of sudden blood was dripping in front of his eyes. 

 

To be quite honest, he’s not fine. He’s dizzy and nauseous. And there’s blood. A lot of blood. 

 

“Jesus, Bellamy!” Raven helps him over to the bench and hands him a rag to press onto the wound, “Let me grab Murphy.”

 

After Murphy finishes laughing, because honestly who drops a wrench on their face, he manages to sew a crooked set of sutures without much of a hassle.

 

When Bellamy raises his good eyebrow in question, Murphy shrugs, “You think Raven sews all the holes in her pants on her own?”

 

Raven smacks his forehead but her lip is quirked upward. It's fascinating, what their years together have done and watching their relationship evolve has been one of the most surprising things because Raven Reyes doesn't forgive easily but she's forgiven him. And Murphy spends every day making it up to her.

 

“Alright, Blake,” Raven claps her hands together before pushing him off her stool, “No more repairs for you. You can't be trusted.”

 

He doesn't argue because his head does kind of hurt and he doesn't exactly trust himself with tools either. Now is as good a time as any to take break. He wanders down the hall, stopping in to let Monty know where he'll be, before making his way to his room. It's become more or less a home over time, small trinkets lying around to remind him of his past and his future. On the table next to his bed is the copy of  _ The Iliad _ he received what seems to be a lifetime ago. He had thought he'd lost it but when Raven pulled it from the ship, she had smiled gently and handed it over. She found it by chance just before the Ark was destroyed. It must have been a sign, she had said, and he has to agree. 

 

Leaning back, he cracks open the book, pulling the small piece of paper he's been using as a bookmark from the spine. He takes a moment to look at the drawing, admiring it for what seems to be the millionth time. The lines are familiar now, the familiar face staring back at him. Abby Griffin. He had found it stuck between the bed and the wall in her cell, shoved so tightly he almost couldn't get it out. He'd been happy to find it, some left over piece of her to keep. More than anything, he hopes to give to her mom. He knows she would want to have it. 

 

Sometimes he wonders if she knows her daughter is dead. Does she feel emptier somehow? He thinks about it often, what it will be like to return to Earth and tell the woman that he failed her. He promised to look out for Clarke and he didn't. 

 

He folds the paper back up and tucks it back into the book. He doesn't feel much like reading. He lays back and closes his eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head. Perhaps it's only moments or hours later when he hears her voice

 

“When I said use your head, this isn’t exactly what I meant.”

 

He’s used to this by now, of course. He hardly even reacts, just sits up with a sigh. He looks over and finds her leaning against the window, arms crossed and glaring at him. He gently touches the new wound and finds himself grinning. He did use his head. To catch the wrench. 

 

He wonders if he’s hallucinating or dreaming. Both seem plausible, given his history. He dreams of her quite frequently and she usually looks like this -- golden hair worn like a crown, eyes wide and bright. She looks like Clarke, the version he met on the dropship that first day as she stood up to him. The air could be toxic, she told him and even a piece of him felt something shift then. Like he knew she was special somehow. 

 

He doesn’t bother standing, just sits on the edge of his bed and shrugs, “You always told me how thick headed I was.” 

 

He likes these moments, when he gets to talk to her. Sometimes his dreams are more...intense. Sometimes he can’t reach her or she can’t hear him. Sometimes she’s his most vivid nightmares. But dreams like these, well, they keep him sane. Or...as sane as he can be when it comes to hallucinating a dead person.

 

She scoffs at that, “Never thought you’d actually test it out.”

 

He takes a moment to admire her, how bright and beautiful she is standing in front of him. Other worldly, even. Sometimes he worries he's going to forget her, not as a whole, but pieces of her. What she sounds like. The exact shade of her eyes. The way she smiles, in halves like she's never sure if she should commit. He's grateful for moments like these because it's like her way of reminding him that she's hear with him, that she always will be. 

 

“Murphy can't stitch worth a shit,” she muses aloud and he laughs at that. Even the ghost of Clarke can find something to critique. Typical.

 

“I haven't looked,” he replies, getting up from his bed and moving to the window next to her. He glances at his reflection, leaning in to get a better look. They're definitely not the work of a steady hand but seem to be doing the trick.

 

“Better than nothing, right?”

 

He turns to face her but she's already gone. Just like that. He sighs and glances out the window, watching the Earth, nothing but a hideous shade of brown, turn slowly. These moments are fleeting, small and insignificant in a way. Reminders that she isn't here. Reminders to never forget.

 

Not that he ever could. 

 

**iv.**

 

The landing is nothing short of terrible. They lose a thruster somewhere between the stratosphere and  troposphere, and it turns out navigating the ship is much harder than Raven explained. He doesn’t remember much in between entering Earth’s atmosphere and hitting the ground, but he startles awake, still strapped into his seat and with ringing ears and a headache like nothing he’s ever experienced. 

 

“Everybody good?” he calls out into the darkness of the small ship. He clicks off his seatbelt and stands, gripping the chair for balance as he tries to catch his balance. Step one is complete: they make it to the ground in one piece.

 

There is no lever this time, just a series of latches and a grunt as he pushes the door open. The pod illuminates in the sunlight, the damage of their landing now visible. The control panel is smoking, Echo is bleeding thanks to a small cut just above her eye, and Emori is kicking a loose chunk of metal (it looks important and had they not already landed, it might be concerning) away from her feet. Monty stands, helping Harper from her seat and nodding at him to continue. 

 

He pushes the door the rest of the way open and his eyes shut automatically, the brightness a difficult adjustment. The first thing he notices is the warmth on his skin, an abstract feeling he had missed in the cold darkness of space. He steps out first, his feet kicking up dust as he hit the ground. There is soft breeze caressing his cheek and he smiles.

 

Home. 

 

The Earth hasn’t changed. Not really. And as if trying to prove a point, he hears the vaguely familiar pop of a gun and something whizzes by his ear. He ducks down and just as soon as they make it home, they’re on the run. 

 

“What the fuck!” Echo is wheezing behind him as they take cover in the trees. They don’t have time to admire the greenery, strangely healthy despite having been burned alive six years ago. He hasn’t heard another gun go off, but he still doesn’t feel safe. There is something uneasy hanging in the air. 

 

By the time they stop, they’re all panting and holding on to each other and the trees for support. While they tried to stay in shape, running wasn’t really something they had to do a whole lot of. 

 

“What was that?” Emori puffs. The wind stops for a moment, the world silent around them and he holds up his hand, suddenly concerned by the mountain peak just miles away. There’s a boom, not like anything he’s ever heard. The trees are bending at weird angles and he’s being thrown to the ground. He hits the dirt with a grunt, the wind knocked fresh out of him. 

 

“We have to go,” he chokes out, scrambling to his feet and helping the others move forward. They’re about to take off when a voice calls out from behind them. 

 

“Hey!” 

 

In the clearing is a child, a small girl with long braided hair and patchy clothing, watching them with urgent concern and pointing behind her, “This way!”

 

Echo turns towards her and he grabs her shoulder, naturally skeptical considering they’ve already been shot at and blown halfway across the woods, “We don’t know her.”

 

She pauses for the moment and watches the girl before saying something in Trigedasleng. The girl instantly responds and Echo nods. Just like that.

 

“We can trust her.” 

 

“Are you crazy?” he hisses, gripping her arm as she turns. They’ve already been shot at, attacked by some unknown entity now hellbent on chasing them. The Earth hasn’t changed and they need to be careful. He learned that lesson the first time and he won’t make that mistake again. 

 

“She’s one of us,” she yanks her arm free with a growl. He scoffs at that, at how Echo, the one who trusted no one for so long, is now willing to follow some girl blindly into the woods.

 

“We don’t know that.” 

 

He thought that in their years together, the others had learned to trust his word. But he watches as one by one they take off behind the child and he’s forced to do the same, reluctantly and convinced that they won’t last a single day on the ground. 

 

So much for a welcome home. 

 

She takes them through a thicket of trees and bushes. He feels thorns digging into his hands as he brushes branches from his path and he stares at the small child guiding them. She walks confidently, like she knows the area well and has something all planned out. She’s quiet, even when Echo tries to start up a conversation in their own language. She just nods and tells them they’ll be there soon. 

 

He has no idea where “there” could be, but he can only hope that it isn’t with their assailants. He wonders, briefly, if they could be the same people that attacked them on the ring. The people that took Raven and Murphy hostage as they escaped. His heart thuds painfully against his chest as he thinks about the two of them. He’s not sure why it always comes to down to leaving people behind, but he’s gotten way too fucking good at it. 

 

The girl stops just before curtain of vines and looks back. She smiles and locks eyes with him. 

 

“Chinkova,” she says with small giggle and he looks at Echo, eyes wide in confusion. He did his best to learn the language on the ring, but some words are still unfamiliar. To his surprise, Echo cracks a smile in return.

 

“She’s laughing at your beard,” she informs him, but before he can reply the girl is skipping through the vines. 

 

“This is weird,” Monty concludes and Bellamy throws a hand up in agreement. At least someone is making sense. They’re following a child through the woods after being attacked. Something is definitely off. 

 

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” he huffs. The girl pokes her head out again, clicking her tongue impatiently.

 

“Dise!” she commands with a nod. They look at him in question and despite his better judgement, he follows. At least if he’s in the front, it would give the others time to get away if things went wrong.

 

“Stay behind me,” he hisses as he pushes through the grassy curtain. They’re led into a small tunnel, the walls covered in moss and ceiling only an inch taller than he is. It’s cramped and he feels his heart rate pick up automatically -- he learned very quickly how claustrophobic he really was. Being trapped on a metal container for six years will do that to you. 

 

He lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding when they reach the end of the tunnel, but it is swiftly knocked out of him again. There’s a clearing within the lush green trees looming over them. There are small huts, built from scrap and wood and items placed sporadically around. It looks like a camp -- an alive and thriving camp.

 

“What the hell?” he grunts, eyes falling on the small radio perched on a wooden table. There’s a satellite buzzing on the ground next to the chair. He turns on the girl, eyes shining with something he can’t quite place. Excitement, maybe?  _ Who is she? _

 

“ _ Klark!”  _ she yells and his head does something funny, something that feels eerily like spinning and stopping all at once. 

 

“What?” he swallows the knot that’s wound around his throat, “What did you just say?” 

 

“Madi?” his heart thuds violently against his chest when he hears it, “What are you ---?”

 

He turns slowly, closing his eyes.  _ This isn’t real,  _ he tells himself,  _ she’s dead. She’s not here, just like all the other times.  _ When he opens them again, he doesn’t expect her to still be standing there, but she is. 

 

She looks different. Her hair is cut to her chin, but her curls wilder than ever. There’s a patch of red peeking from behind her ear and she’s thinner, but leaner. She looks...alive. And healthy. And happy. But she’s here, right in front of him. He glances at the others, mostly to confirm that this time he isn’t just crazy. That he’s not hallucinating. Monty’s mouth is hanging open and Echo’s eyes are wider than he’s ever seen -- like if she closes them it might all just be a dream.

 

“Bellamy,” Clarke whispers and it’s all it takes before he’s running towards her, one foot automatically in front of the other because she’s right fucking here. 

 

She practically jumps into his arms and she’s so solid. Warm. And fuck, she’s Clarke Griffin and she’s in his arms. Six years later and she’s home.  _ He’s  _ home. His arm wraps around her waist tightly while his hand finds her hair, tangling into the blonde curls and holding her against him. He feels her back trembling and feels something wet coating his neck. The same wetness slowly trickles down his cheek. 

 

“You’re real,” he breathes into her ear and she laughs into his chest, pulling back with sparkling eyes and a wide smile. He feels her small fingers travel up his jaw, like she’s tracing the patterns she only barely remembers. She wipes her thumb across his cheek, scratching at the stubble. In this moment it’s just them. A missing piece falls into place. Something settles in his chest like suddenly he’s whole again. 

 

“So are you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> come hang on tumblr with me: octannibal-blake.tumblr.com


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